Wild Texas Rose by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online

among the ranchers. “You’re the first man to see that.”
    Drawing out the words as if he savored them, he said, “That’s because you’re only sweet on me.” He crooked a finger. “Come here.”
    “No.”
    “I need you to roll me a cigarette.”
    “You don’t smoke.”
    “You’re one observant lady.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I have an itch in the middle of my back.”
    “Scratch it on the bed.”
    “Heartless ladies have no fun.” He hung his head. “I may as well tell you the truth. You tied my hands too tight.”
    He wiggled his fingers, and she almost groaned. Was it possible for a man to lose his hands from lack of circulation? No, surely not. She hardened her heart. “I’m sure you’ve experienced worse.”
    “They’re getting cold.”
    Although it was hard to see by the light of the single lamp, his fingertips did look white.
    “If I promise not to touch you in any undignified way, would you come here?”
    Against her better judgment, she moved closer and knelt down. “I can’t loosen the knots.”
    “Of course you can’t.” He smiled. Not his smirky, superior smile, but as kind a smile as she’d ever seen. “But you can kiss ‘em better.”
    She tried to jump back, but his bound hands caught her with more strength than she could have imagined.
    “Just a kiss,” he coaxed. “I want to show you something.”
    “And I know what it is,” she muttered, trying to twist free — from him, and from the impact of his body so close to hers.
    “Why, Rose. Your mind has truly sunk to the depths.”
    He sounded as if he were marveling, but at what? At her crudeness? Or at the attraction that flared with the power of their vanished adolescence, and with the hunger of long denial?
    She didn’t want to look into his eyes. She knew she shouldn’t, for if she did …
    Blue sparks, his sparks, lit the fire in her. The same conflagration he’d created nine years ago, and nothing had ever extinguished it. Somehow, he looped his arms over her head to pull her close, and she sprawled across him in wicked abandon. “Thorn.” She whispered his name, but she could have been shouting, for it betrayed her loneliness — and lust. Bawdy, heart-thumping, wicked, delightful lust.
    She clasped the hair at the nape of his neck with both her hands, holding a willing man captive as she tried to remember all the ways they’d kissed once upon a time.
    She remembered. He remembered. And they discovered a few new ways for lips and tongues to meet and mate.
    She’d never before kissed a man who needed a shave — as a youth he’d been clean-shaven, not prickly and tickly. She’d never before kissed a starving man — as a youth he’d been intent on seduction, not honest about his need.
    “Rose,” he groaned. “Closer. God, Rose, harder.”
    An imp, one she thought long slain by suffering, raised its mischievous head. “Pull your hair,” she murmured, “harder?”
    He grinned at her, his mouth still wet, his lips softened with pleasure. “You are a sly and scarlet woman. I do love a scarlet woman.” He slid lower and arranged her on him, so she lay on him chest to chest, stomach to stomach. Then, raising his free leg between both of hers, he pushed her against his thigh so she rode him like a stallion. “Harder — like that.”
    The pressure melted her bloomers and layers of petticoats, sending such a surge of sensation through her that she bucked to escape — or get closer. He chuckled and groaned, seeming to luxuriate in her enjoyment as much as his own. “When you make those little whimpering noises, you make me want to bust my buttons.” Then he gave her no time to worry about which buttons, but kissed her until she ran out of breath.
    She drew back to gasp, to learn something new, to give some more pleasure, but he wouldn’t suffer her to move away. He came after her, and his mouth found the skin of her shoulders.
    Closing her eyes, she braced herself for the memories that would sweep